


this is not a white flag for you

by openended



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openended/pseuds/openended
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This ends.  Tonight.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is not a white flag for you

She never asked for this. Never wanted it, never wanted anything to do with it. She doesn't have that hideous tattoo on her arm and never once officially pledged her loyalty; it was pledged for her when her husband knelt at the knee of Lord Voldemort and dedicated his life to purity of blood. She made him sleep in other room that night and every night afterward until the tattoo healed and she could no longer smell on her husband the cloud of slimy decay that followed the Dark Lord everywhere.

The other wives are thrilled at their husbands' choices and some even beg for the Mark themselves. She's silently thankful that the Dark Lord refuses them each time, keeping Bellatrix the sole woman in his inner circle; if they received the Mark, she'd be expected to roll up her sleeve as well and she wants no part of this. She sleeps in one of the guest rooms, now, sneaking out when the rest of the Manor is asleep and carefully remaking the bed and tiptoeing back to the master bedroom before the house awakes. She hasn't slept well in months.

Her marriage is crumbling. She won't even speak to Lucius when they're alone; she loves him desperately but is furious and isn't sure whether she'd hit him or cry and isn't interested in finding out. Her house, always somewhat encased in shadows, is constantly dark now. There are few candles and no matter how she stokes the fire in her bedchamber, she cannot ward off the chill. She hasn't seen a house elf in months, though she knows they're still around; she was concerned for a while that Nagini was snacking. Her son frightens her. He's sad and angry and confused and some times he looks at her and she thinks he's going to cry; every time he's on the verge of speaking to her, Lucius or Bellatrix or the Dark Lord himself turns the corner and Draco silences, putting a brave face no one quite believes, least of all her.

_This needs to end._

She watches as the Dark Lord screams the killing curse at an unarmed boy. A line of green fire crackles through the darkened forest.

For the briefest of moments before Harry Potter falls to the forest floor, he's taller and blonde and isn't wearing glasses.

She closes her eyes; she can't watch him fall, can't watch someone her son's age die so carelessly. It's only at Bellatrix's cry of victory that she opens her eyes. On a bed of dead leaves and twigs, half-hidden in shadow, lies Harry Potter. A seventeen year-old boy whose only crime was living.

_This needs to end._

The Dark Lord addresses her directly, demands that she ensure that the boy really is dead. She thinks it's punishment, somehow, for Lucius' desire to return to the castle and find Draco. That for her husband's crimes, she is the one to pay by touching a boy who could be her son and feeling no heartbeat.

She erects every mental wall she's ever built as she walks across the clearing to where he lies. She curses with every step, curses Lucius and Voldemort and Bellatrix and every damn witch and wizard that has tracked blood into her home these past months. She thinks she might apparate away before she reaches Harry; find Andromeda somehow, hope that her sister forgives her and they'll go into hiding together. They'd joked about growing old and having cats, but that was before Andromeda's name had been burned off the family tree. She doesn't apparate; she continues on her path, unable to give this last task to anyone else.

And then, out of nowhere, a heartbeat beneath her fingertips. She releases a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?" Her words are mere breaths, so as not to betray herself.

His lips part, just enough to whisper, "Yes."

_This ends. Tonight._

She stands and turns to face the others, now beginning to fidget in earnest as they await her answer. She speaks to them all, but she looks directly at Lord Voldemort. "He is dead."


End file.
